


In Which Jehan Challenges Your Sexual Stereotypes

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, awkwardly smitten Bahorel, discussion of sexual cliches, vaguely sexual things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan sticks his tongue at him through his smile, looking inordinately pleased with himself as he leans back, starts to idly push Bahorel’s shirt off his shoulders. “Well, we can’t have that, I suppose,” he muses. “No coming until I fuck you first.”</p>
<p>At that, Bahorel feels himself choking on nothing but oxygen, coughs—barely manages to huff, “Excuse me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Jehan Challenges Your Sexual Stereotypes

“Fuck,” Bahorel growls into Jehan’s mouth, pressing the slighter man up against his living room wall and kicking the front door closed behind them. He slots his knee between Jehan’s legs, growls again when he feels Jehan grind up against him. He bites down on the poet’s bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, metallic and warm in both of their mouths—then swears again and pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says. Bahorel rarely feels sheepish but he feels sheepish now. “I’m—”

“You don’t need to worry about hurting me.” Jehan shrugs. “Stop apologizing for it and come here.” He reaches up to pull at the torn collar of Bahorel’s shirt—torn from a fight earlier in the evening, and stained with some asshole’s blood—to tug their mouths and teeth and tongue back together.

This is new. Not just the kissing—the groping, the groaning, the dragging one another back to Bahorel’s dingy studio apartment—the whole damn thing is new. And possibly a bad idea. Probably. Definitely. Because as much as Bahorel is very much enjoying the feeling of Jehan’s fingers tracing circles into his biceps and sliding down to grip his sides, Jehan deserves better than this. Than him. Than getting fucked into Bahorel’s mattress while the walls and the single window rattle from the train that comes by every night at 1:23 in the morning. Because that is definitely where this is leading, as Jehan’s hand smooths down Bahorel’s front, down his chest and lower to where Bahorel is hard as hell in his itchy black suit pants because unfortunately law firm internships are the worst as far as dress codes are concerned, even in the middle of July.

(Although as Bahorel has been learning all summer, apparently wearing a suit to the bar, after work, is an easy enough way to get laid. Yes, Bahorel knows what he looks like, and he looks ten times that in a goddamn suit of all things.)

But anyway.

Jehan deserves overpriced smelly candles and rose petals, and probably strawberries dipped in chocolate, because for some dumb fucking reason those are supposed to be romantic, right? And poetry—Jehan always deserves poetry, and Bahorel doesn’t know shit about poetry. He supposes if he escaped into the bathroom with his laptop to do a Google search for “erotic poetry” it would be a little too obvious.

Fuck, he’s palming Jehan’s skinny jean-clad ass to press him closer, and of all the things his hands are sweaty. They’re also bruised, but that’s from earlier. They’re sweaty now because Bahorel is fucking  _nervous_ , and he can’t remember the last time he was nervous about sex. Maybe when he lost his virginity when he was fifteen, but possibly not even then.

He blames the sight of Jehan at dinner, grinning nervously and pulling up the collar of his lumpy, lavender, oversized sweater where it slipped down his left shoulder every two minutes, which shouldn’t have been nearly so attractive.

But the date—yes the date, a date that they both doubted Courfeyrac and Grantaire would ever let them live down—had gone well (except for the douchebag who’d yelled shit at them on the walk home, but Bahorel had taken care of that easily enough, even if it meant having to get his nice work shirt dry-cleaned before Monday), and they’d managed to not jump each other’s bones until making it into the apartment building, which was how they ended up here: Jehan against the wall, rubbing Bahorel’s cock while Bahorel licked and bit at Jehan’s shoulder, feeling the smaller man shudder against him every time he squeezed his ass.

And even if Bahorel couldn’t give Jehan all the fluffy, pretty, romantic shit that he deserved, he could at least show his crush—boyfriend— _thing_ —an excellent time, and even cuddle with him afterwards. With French toast in the morning, because cooking breakfast might be the one romantic cliche that Bahorel is capable of.

But moving on.

After another moment, Jehan slips out from between the wall and Bahorel, loops his fingers into Bahorel’s belt loops, and starts urging them in the direction the mattress on the floor. His grin now is wicked instead of the nervous, uncertain one he wore at dinner, and Bahorel grins back, feeling his heart fucking  _flutter_. Somewhere along the way they toe off their shoes, and their teeth bang together almost unpleasantly when Bahorel trips over one of Jehan’s sandals. And then Jehan is on the mattress, on his knees, and Bahorel would be very okay with this turn of events but then Jehan pulls him down to join him, and okay, this is even better. The navy blue sheets are a wreck from the night before, because even when Bahorel sleeps alone he sprawls out everywhere and manages to make his sorry excuse for a bed an even bigger mess.

Jehan pushes Bahorel onto his back, and Bahorel lets him, finally tugging that ugly-ass lavender sweater of seduction over his head while Jehan plucks at the buttons on Bahorel’s ruined shirt. Bahorel groans at the smooth, bare skin revealed beneath the brush of his hands, smirks at the answering squeak as he tweaks Jehan’s nipples with his calloused thumbs. Shirtless, Bahorel can see the vibrant flowers tattooed down Jehan’s ribs, like a watercolor painting. They’d look stupid on anybody else, but on Jehan—they’re more than fitting. He drags blunt nails down his ribs, his sides, in admiration of the artwork there.

In retaliation, Jehan swings a leg over Bahorel’s hips so that he’s straddling him, and grinds down hard. Even with the fabric of their pants between them, the friction is good, better than good, and Bahorel smothers his sudden gasp by biting down on Jehan’s collarbone—Jehan makes that adorable-sounding  _squeak_ again, which only encourages Bahorel to bite more, bite harder, along the curve of his neck. His hands move down and fix themselves in a bruising grip on Jehan’s sharp hipbones, guiding the movement of his hips from where he writhes atop Bahorel.

“Fuck, Jehan,” Bahorel grunts out, fumbling for words. “Okay, we have to stop this before I come in my pants like a goddamn teenager.”

Jehan sticks his tongue at him through his smile, looking inordinately pleased with himself as he leans back, starts to idly push Bahorel’s shirt off his shoulders. “Well, we can’t have that, I suppose,” he muses. “No coming until I fuck you first.”

At that, Bahorel feels himself choking on nothing but oxygen, coughs—barely manages to huff, “Excuse me?”

“What’s wrong?” Jehan peers down at him. His cheeks are still flushed pink with arousal, even though he’s frowning—an abrupt switch from his playful attitude a few seconds before.

“Who is doing the fucking here?”

Jehan moves off of Bahorel entirely to lay down beside him, and props himself up on an elbow. In the half-light, he traces the contours of the muscles of Bahorel’s stomach with a fingertip. “Does it really matter?”

Bahorel is blushing—of all things, he is  _blushing_ , and Bahorel might be red with the blood of his enemies, more often than not, but he certainly does not blush. The fact that he is blushing now only makes him blush harder. He feels himself getting nervous again, and remembers why he tends to stay away from feelings.

He shifts on the mattress. “I just assumed,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“What did you assume, Bahorel?” Jehan asks, and Bahorel can hear the slight smile on his face.

He groans—one of embarrassment instead of pleasure this time, obviously, because of course he’s an asshole who would assume that. “If there was going to be any fucking tonight, and it would be totally okay if there wasn’t, but” (because Bahorel isn’t  _that kind_  of an asshole, jesus fucking christ) “I figured if there was fucking, it would be, you know, me doing the fucking.”

A soft chuckle from behind him puts Bahorel only a little at ease. “And why’s that?” Jehan’s voice is sweet, inviting. There isn’t any scorn in it.

Regardless, this conversation is doing nothing at all for Bahorel’s steadily waning erection, and Jehan likely feels the same, judging by the shape of his body behind him. Bahorel huffs again, into the pillow. He would manage to fuck this up, wouldn’t he? Brings strangers home with no problem, but the moment he tries to sleep with someone he knows and likes: this happens. Bahorel is far from being in the habit of feeling sorry for himself, but for now he is allowing himself a small indulgence in it. Probably, once Jehan inevitably leaves for the night, Bahorel will go out and find someone to fight. That might cheer him up a bit.

“I figured you were a bottom,” Bahorel finally says. He hasn’t stopped the mumbling into his pillow. Yes, for the first time, in bed with a highly attractive human being, Bahorel would like to sink into his mattress and never return. He wonders if this is how being Grantaire feels like all the time. “I mean, you’re pretty petite. And just pretty. And you like flowers and poetry and shit like that,” he explains, more aggressively.

“I don’t think any of those things indicate my preferences in bed,” Jehan points out, kindly. He’s still tracing circles across Bahorel’s skin, which at least means he isn’t so repulsed by Bahorel’s dumb assumption as to stop touching him entirely.

Bahorel rolls over to face him, glaring and scowling but that doesn’t scare Jehan away, of course, because Jehan is Jehan and yes, that does make perfect sense. “And I’m about seven feet tall. And the size of a rather well-built house. And I didn’t cry at that movie night when Courfeyrac made us watch  _Babe_.” He taps Jehan’s nose, fondly, trying to regain some of his typical, roguish Bahorel-brand of charm. “Usually when people want to bang me, it’s because I am clearly awesome at topping. Because of those things I just listed,” he adds.

“Well I am interested in you for more reasons than that. Although I do see the appeal…” Jehan trails off, teasingly. “I can be flexible.” And fuck, Bahorel can see that Jehan is blushing now, too, because this whole thing is so ridiculous and cliche and  _stupid_ , and what happened to the part where they were about to have sex instead of talking about it?

But then Jehan is continuing. “But one day I’d like to pull on that dark hair of yours and study the arch in your spine and take you apart with my fingers, leaving you a gasping, sobbing mess who is begging for my cock, begging for me to be inside of you.” He says it casually, like he’s talking about the weather, not about how he’d like to fuck him, and Bahorel suddenly can’t breathe. Jehan pats him on the shoulder, comfortingly, then briefly lowers his lips to the same spot. “But I won’t pressure you into anything you feel uncomfortable with, of course. Though dating me means getting over your preconceived notions about a lot of things.”

“I—I wouldn’t mind it if you fucked me,” Bahorel says, trying to sound as casual as Jehan does, and absolutely failing. He’s certain he’s never failed so hard at anything in his life as he has in the past twenty minutes. “Sometime. Probably not tonight. But.”

“I understand. Do you think we could just cuddle for now? Watch a movie? I love cuddling,” Jehan confides, as if it’s something that their entire group of friends doesn’t already know, as if Jehan doesn’t routinely cuddle with every single one of them every chance he gets.

Bahorel stretches for his television remote as Jehan curls into him, pulls one of Bahorel’s arms to drape over him and nuzzles into his tricep. They fall asleep that way while watching  _Game of Thrones_ , after reaching the shared conclusion that Sansa Stark is indeed the most underrated character of the series.

“See? I like girly shit, too,” Bahorel says, nudging at Jehan’s ankle.

Jehan just hums with content.

…..

In the end, the next morning ought to be considered a fantastic success, as waking up with “morning wood” turns out to be much less embarrassing when the man in Bahorel’s bed stretches himself open and sinks down onto his cock, raking small fists down his chest and keening with Bahorel’s name on his lips when he makes him come. It’s far less awkward than it ought to be, considering their conversation last night.

And then, after a shared, languid shower, Bahorel makes them both French toast.

 


End file.
